Gorilla Beach (7 page)

The crowd reacted to that with taunts and jeers. Frank vs. Gia was like the mountain vs. the mouse. The mouse was winning. Frank stammered, chagrined. After you've been called out for hooking up with a high school girl, where can you go from there?

Cara butted in, “You can't talk to my boyfriend like that.”

Frank said, “Stay out of it.”

“Can someone please make Frankie's toddler stop crying?” said Gia.

Cara hauled back, her bony fist then launching forward. Gia darted left. Cara's punch sailed through space and landed squarely on Fredo's jaw.

“Fredo!” shouted Gia. “You bitch! No one punches my date.”

In a haze, Fredo sank to his knees. He watched a fuzzy movie of a mouse in a red-feathered dress grabbing a handful of his hateful cousin's hair and yanking it hard. Cara screamed in pain, which made him smile. His vision blurred. On his back now, Fredo stared at a thousand shimmering lights from a dozen mirrored balls. But then he realized they were the stars.

The bar was across
the banquet room, next to a giant ice sculpture of Cupid shooting an arrow through a heart. Maria must have pushed for this. Stanley probably looked at it and saw dollar bills melting.

If Bella ever got married, she'd … scratch that. Why give yourself to someone who would break your heart at the first sign of trouble? When she let herself think about her father Charlie's actions last winter—refusing to help Marissa when she was sick, then walking out on their family when they were at their worst—Bella's heart felt like that sculpture. A block of ice.

“Drink,” she said to herself. Man, did she need (another) one. The shots of Bacardi might as well have been poured down the sink for all the good they did her.

To the bartender, she said, “Tequila.”

He set up a glass and poured. She shot it, replaced the glass, and said, “Again.”

He refilled her glass.

“Can I join you?” asked a kid standing next to her. In his early twenties, he was dressed in black jeans, motorcycle boots, a gray T-shirt with a white skull on it, and black blazer. His skin was pale. The hair? Jet-black with spikes. He must have emptied a can of Deluxe Aqua Net to keep the clumps sticking straight up. Around his
sky-blue eyes, he wore as much black eyeliner as she did.
A punk? In South Jersey?
The kid took a wrong turn somewhere around the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Not her usual type, but cute. Sexy.

“Free country,” she said.

“Two hundred and thirty-six years old today.” The punk nodded at the bartender and downed his shot. “Happy July Fourth. Happy wedding. Excellent bridesmaiding. You didn't fall down or drop the bouquet. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Standing up for ten minutes straight is a tough job. But some bitch has to do it.”

He smiled. His teeth were charmingly crooked.

Bella found herself smiling back at him. She felt an old urge to sketch his face. She used to draw a lot, back in high school. Bella had taken a few art classes and would have liked to do more. But her dad didn't see the point of pursuing art, or college for that matter. His plan was for Bella to marry a kid from the neighborhood and spend the rest of her life shitting out babies and cranking out sausage at the family deli. Bella begged to go to college for three years and was on the verge of giving up when Charlie sold the deli, leaving Bella without a solid plan for the future. Thanks to Mom's subtle manipulation, Dad agreed to pay some of Bella's college tuition. She'd enrolled at New York University in Manhattan's Greenwich Village last fall.

Her freshman year was a struggle. She'd had a vision of walking through Washington Square Park in thigh-high leather boots, her hair extensions blowing in the autumn wind, shopping at the Bebe store on Fifth Avenue with new friends, drinking espressos in Little Italy, reading, studying, having deep conversations about literature and art. Never happened. Bella found it impossible to make friends. She tried. But the kids at NYU wanted nothing to do with her.

The decision was made early on that instead of living in a dorm with the other freshmen, Bella would live at home. She'd take the
subway into the city for her classes. Not living on campus hurt her socially. She was also a few years older than the other freshmen, having deferred college for three years. And then some intangible factors set her apart. Her working-class roots. Her boobs. Her Brooklyn accent. Her slutwear and winter tan. Bella fit like Lycra in her own neighborhood. She felt at home in Seaside, too. But at NYU? She was a freak. The snobby girls looked down on her. The boys swarmed like flies on roadkill. But they only wanted one thing—and it wasn't her opinion on the use of imagery in Dante's
Inferno
.

Throw into that stew Mom's shocking cancer diagnosis, Dad's abandonment—and her breakup with Tony.

“Are you okay?” the punk asked gently.

Bella swallowed her anger whole. She had a talent for keeping her feelings locked up. She both feared and admired Gia's ability to express herself. Her emotions spilled out uncontrollably, as if her tiny body couldn't contain them.

“Not okay. Too thirsty.”

“We can take care of that.”

She watched him flag down the bartender. His eyes were incredible. Not sky blue, actually. Electric blue, like neon. She'd never seen eyes that color before.

“How do you know the newlyweds?” she asked.

“I don't,” he said.

“Crashing a wedding?”

“I'm delivering a gift. I was hired to paint a portrait of the bride and groom.”

“You're an artist?” she asked, instantly intrigued.

He shook his head. “I hate that word. It makes me feel self-conscious.”

Bella nodded. “Do you have a pen?”

Without asking why she wanted one, he reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a black ballpoint. Bella studied his
profile and did a quick line drawing of him on a cocktail napkin. The pen tore the paper a little, but the sketch wasn't terrible. “For you.”

“This is pretty good. You can draw,” he said admiringly. “Let me do you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want to do me?”

“Who wouldn't?” Another boy would blush or stammer if Bella made a sexy comment. But this punk was supercool. Taking pen to cocktail napkin, he quickly drew Bella's face. It took all of a minute. With just a few lines, he somehow captured her essence. The upward tilt of her eyes, her graceful cheekbones, pretty pointed chin, and full lips. The long, straight hair, and hoop earrings. But what impressed Bella the most: he'd added a detail, a flower in her hair.

“A rose?” she asked. “That's my favorite. How did you know?”

“I didn't. I like roses, too. They open slowly. One petal at a time. I don't trust anything that opens up too quickly.”

“You prefer to go slow?” She raised the shot glass to her full lips, traced the rim with her tongue, then drank, never taking her eyes off him.

“I'm William Lugano.”

“Lugano? You're Italian?” She would never have called that. Her guidar was on the fritz.

“Half. My dad's family was from northern Italy, which is practically Switzerland.”

“Isabella Rizzoli. Do you go by Bill, Will, Liam?”

“Will. And you? Izzy, Lia, Bella?”

“Bella.”

They shook hands. She noticed the letters
L-O-V-E
were tattooed on his knuckles. “Let me guess. On your other hand, you've got the word
hate
.”

“Hate isn't the opposite of love.”

“It's not?”

He held out his left hand. Across the knuckles and the space between them were tattooed the letters
R-E-G-R-E-T
.

“That's deep.” Bella's tone was sarcastic. But the idea—love and regret as opposites—was definitely provocative. “So where's the wedding portrait? Can I see it?”

“It's wrapped. I'm supposed to present it when the cake is served.”

“Give me a sneak peek. I won't tell anyone.” He wavered. Bella gave him her pleading eyes, batting her extra set of lashes. “Don't be a twat tease.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A
what
?”

“Come on. Lemme see.”

“If Donna Lupo finds out, I'm in deep shit.”

Christ, not her again. “You're not afraid of Donna Lupo, are you?”

“Yes!”

“Me, too,” said Bella, laughing. “Don't worry. I promise to keep my trap shut.”

“It's outside.”

In his car? Bella listened in her head for the siren of doubt. She'd learned firsthand last summer that you can't be too careful going anywhere with a stranger. She'd fought off a date rapist. Even though she clobbered the little shit, the memory still shook her up. “I'm a brown belt in karate, so if you're luring me out there to rape or abduct me, you're gonna eat pavement.”

“Duly warned.” Will led Bella into the parking lot. He stopped at a vintage silver Ducati motorcycle, propped up on its kickstand by the side of the building. Strapped with bungee cords to the seat was an eleven-by-fourteen-inch package wrapped in brown paper.

He rode a bike. Bella felt a twinge in a sensitive spot. What was it about motorcycles that was so freakin' sexy? “You brought the painting on your bike? From where?”

“I live in Atlantic City. I've done work for Mrs. Lupo before.”

“Are you famous?”

“Ha! I wish. No, she must have googled ‘cheapest portrait painting in Atlantic and Ocean Counties.'”

He unpeeled a taped corner of the brown paper, then another. Holding the painting up to the security light swarming with mosquitoes, he showed her his work. The image was of Maria, the new version with blond hair and a vacuum-sealed face, in a red, Valentino-style dress, reclining on a bearskin rug, her legs about twice as long as in real life. Her arm rested in Stanley's lap. He was seated on a black leather couch, in an Armani-style gray suit, a superstudly bulge in his trousers, with his gold-ringed hand on top of Maria's head.

Although it reminded Bella of something out of
Scarface,
the likenesses of Maria and Stanley were amazing. The drapes looked like real damask. She could almost feel the tickle of bear fur. Most of all, the tacky motif cracked her up. But if she laughed, she might hurt his feelings.

“It's okay to laugh. It's supposed to be funny,” he said. “Ironic. A reference to Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino in—”

“I was
just
thinking
Scarface
! I swear!”

“So you get it,” he said, his blue eyes gleaming. “Whew. That's a relief. No one has seen this but you. And me.”

Bella felt another flutter. Not sexual per se, but inspirational. This kid had talent. His downplaying it only impressed her more. After her first boyfriend, Bobby, and then Tony, she'd had all the guido bluster she could stomach. Granted, her year had been too tumultuous to think about romance. But now, standing in the parking lot, dried seagull-shit smears underfoot, the faint smell of Dumpster in the damp July air, Bella felt that part of herself coming back to life.

Will replaced the portrait and retaped it. Unable to resist, Bella put her hand over his. His skin was warm to the touch.

“It really is good,” she said, and leaned toward him.

A shout echoed in the night. Then more. A commotion rose in the parking lot. Their heads snapped toward it. Bella thought she saw a flash of Gia's red-feather dress in the fray. The crowd pressed into a circle, blocking Bella's view.

Of course, Gia is at the center of it,
thought Bella. Her cousin was a drama magnet. Bella rushed forward and elbowed through the gawkers to see what was going on.

By the time she got through, Fredo was on his back on the ground, eyes open but unfocused. Cara was holding her head, mascara running down her face. On her knees, Gia was bent over Fredo, gently patting his cheek and saying his name. A voice boomed behind her, “My son! Where's my Fredo!? No! What did you do to him?”

Frank's tartlet, Cara, pointed at Gia. “She started it, Aunt Donna.”

Gia said, “It wasn't my fault!”

Donna Lupo pushed Gia out of the way and cradled Fredo's head in her cleavage. While rocking, she sobbed, “My boy! My only boy!”

The tableau of a mother holding her immobile son reminded Bella of the Renaissance paintings of the pietà she'd studied in art history class. Mary holding Jesus after he was pulled from the cross.

Someone said, “Luigi Lupo's son, flattened by a girl.”

Snickers spread like a virus. Maria and Stanley broke through the circle of spectators and took in the situation.

“A fistfight at an Italian wedding,” said Stanley. “This has to be a first.”

“
Now
it's a party,” said Maria, clearly hammered. She raised her glass and shouted, “Who needs a refill?”

The newlyweds managed to herd their guests back inside. Bella went to Gia and helped her to her feet. Bella had to step over Fredo's outstretched legs on the way. Awkward.

“I didn't start it,” said Gia to anyone who'd listen. “Cara threw the first punch.”

“Don't speak to me!” barked Donna. “Get away from my son!”

Bella glanced around for Will, but he was gone. He wasn't kidding about being afraid of Donna Lupo. Bella put her arm around Gia. They went back inside. Once safely away from the pietà in the parking lot, Bella said, “I think the polite thing—and the smart thing—would be to grab our purses and shoes and get the hell out of here.”

“But they haven't cut the cake yet,” said Gia. “Did you see it? It's the shape of New Jersey.”

“I love wedding cake,” said Bella, reconsidering. “Okay. We stay.”

“Yay! But just one piece. My badonk is ridonk.”